


Empty Nest Syndrome

by windychimes



Category: Bastion
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windychimes/pseuds/windychimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The den is empty when you get home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Nest Syndrome

The den is empty when you get home.

Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Panic fixes nothing; your time as a Mancer has taught you that. If you panicked every time something caught fire or exploded, you’d be useless. Rational thought is always the solution. Stay calm and everything will be fine.

The den is dark. You call your daughter’s name; there is no answer. The house is silent like outside is silent, all the noise of the city dwindled down to nothing but a burnt out flame. You check every room, keep your footsteps even like your breathing. Perhaps she is scared and hiding; she did that often as a child. A younger child. Not even the sound of your voice could make her come out from under the bed; only lullabies ever worked. Singing was your wife’s specialty, but Zia never seemed to mind your voice.

The den is not large, and all that’s left to check is her bedroom. You stop in front of her door, pause, knock; silence. You push the door lightly and it creaks, falls open of its own accord. Her room is messy, bed unmade and clothing strewn about. Pillows and blankets everywhere, an open box of jewelry on the floor. All Ura colors of blue and red and gold, the only thing you let her have of her heritage. You try to say her name but no sound comes out. It feels wrong to disrupt the quiet now. You check under her bed but she is not there; all that’s there are a few plush animals from when she was younger. Things she pretended to throw away.

Zia is gone. Keep things fact and nothing can hurt you. She is gone, and you cannot make her come home. You tidy up her room. Keep busy, keep normal. Do the fatherly things you never did. You fold her clothing, make her bed. Close the jewelry box, don’t look through it. You do not deserve such luxuries. Take the stuffed animals out from under the bed and place them on her pillow. Wait a little longer. She could always come back. Just like your wife could always come back.

Ignore the facts, allow yourself flights of fancy. Perhaps she left after the Calamity happened—perhaps she is still alive somewhere. She’s a resourceful girl, she always has been. Zia could survive; she could make it to the Bastion. The Bastion is still standing, even if no one is there. Maybe there is another survivor or two there, maybe a few made it. Zia is sweet, kind, smart; she could make friends. She could be okay.

Back to the facts. You are alone. There is nothing you can do to stop being alone. Go to the Bastion—there could be supplies there. You cannot give up simply because your daughter is gone. Head to the Bastion for supplies, then head for the Terminals. The Terminals will be ruined, but not gone. Your people will be there. You can finally go home.

You need your gun; no Calamity will make the Wilds safe. It is something you have not touched in many years, something you should have thrown away a long time ago. It’s not suitable to have when there is a child around. But safety is paramount, as well as sentimentality; it got you through the Wilds the first time, and it will get you through them again. Your father gave it to you when you became a man, and you will become a man once more. You keep your in a locked box in your closet, hidden beneath layers of clothing. It wouldn’t do if Zia were to have found it. You go to your room and head to your closet, but the chest has already been pulled out. The lock is broken, the chest is open. Your gun is gone.

You smile. Your daughter is more resourceful than you thought.


End file.
